


Lips Like Tennessee Whiskey

by TheFamousFireLadyM



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bliss (Far Cry), Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Multi, Oral Sex, Sex in a Car, gun for hire oc, nonbinary deputy, sheriff hot dad, the Anaïs saga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFamousFireLadyM/pseuds/TheFamousFireLadyM
Summary: Illegal cult activity Sheriff Whitehorse can deal with. Same with holding down the jail. Interested women, on the other hand? Not so much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zAThXFOy2c  
> this also takes place in the same universe as Masks, and any other fic that references Deputy Jones

It was a quiet night, and Hope County was alight with a buzz in the air of anticipation. It may have been the uncharacteristically warm Montana night, but something about it set Sheriff Whitehorse on edge. Even after dulling it with a couple lukewarm beers, mediocre as they were, pabst about three months expired, he felt like something big was about to happen, but he wasn’t entirely sure what. That is, until the door swung open and the bar went silent. Even the jukebox fell into a lull. 

“So you're Jones’ big bad boss man, huh?” A clear voice called from across the bar, and a stocky little redhead sidled in beside him outside the booth, scuffed elbows up on the table. “Sheriff…” She squinted to read the name on his shirt. “Whitehorse?” 

“Ma’am,” he tipped his hat down. She did seem familiar. If he had to guess it was one of the few guns for hire out and around, working alongside the rookie deputy. 

“Dep’s out somewhere, not needing my help.” She spread her hands along the table. “How's about a little company? The night is long.” 

“Suit yourself,” he gestured to the seat across from him, then looked her over. “Did you want something to drink?” 

“I could use something hard.” She gave him a cursory glance, up and down. He responded with a gesture to the bar, and another drink was poured. Across the table, the sheriff set his hands down, giving the merc some space. 

“Wow, what a gentleman.” She slipped into the booth across from him, a coy look lifting across her round face, almond shaped eyes up in a smile. 

A smirk curled up the corner of his mouth, and he lifted his drink to his mouth.

“If we were in a romance novel right now, I'd say the writer was being a little heavy handed with the symbolism here.” Anaïs loudly whispered, letting out a quiet laugh between them. “Knight in shining armor on a white horse? C'mon.” 

He gave a snort in response, and Anaïs was sure as hell counting that as a victory. She leaned in on her folded arms across the table, giving him a good glimpse of sun spotted skin down the front of her shirt. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and averted his gaze before he could see anything else. "Chen, right? You're working with Jones." 

"Yeah. 'S a good kid. Wish they weren't as in over their head as they were, knowing how John's after them." 

Earl gave a quiet agreement and tipped his beer to his lips. 

It was an amiable silence, broken only by casual questions, thinly veiled flirting from both sides, pointed commentary on the lukewarm watered down liquor they were both sipping. The jukebox in the corner was just loud enough they could talk freely without being overheard. 

She'd been eyeing it for close to five minutes straight.

“C'mon, boss.” She took him by the hands, hauling him out of the booth. “Let's give these old bones of ours a good rattling.” 

A slow song had started up on the jukebox, and Anaïs’ eyes lit up. 

“Believe it or not, I actually know this one.” Anaïs murmured, eyes glittering with mirth under the dim lights. “Easy now, cowboy.” She pulled his hat off his head and plopped it on the table between their drinks. “Now, c'mon,” she nodded toward the empty dance floor. “‘Fore the song ends.” 

Anaïs dragged him in, depositing one of Earl's hands on her hip, and covering it with her own. She looped one arm around his shoulders. “Y’ever do this before? Swear, it's like I'm fighting with a mannequin.” Whitehorse let her reel him in. She gave him a pretty grin, and his other hand settled high up on her side. Anaïs let her hand drift up his shoulder as they swayed to the music. “Are you always this stiff?

“Only when I'm in the arms of a beautiful woman.” He dryly replied.

“Oh, you think I'm beautiful?” Her tone was teasing and she leaned in on her tip toes. Still, the top of Anaïs’ head barely made it to his nose.

“Come to think of it, first impressions make a difference. I think you're a lot of things.” 

“Flatterer.” Anaïs responded, flatly. “What kind of things is your big time sheriff brain thinking about me?” Her eyebrows went up, and he scratched at his chin in thought.

“You don't look like the type to stick around here.” 

“You got me, Sheriff. Caught me red handed.” Her hands made it up his shoulders, fingers threading together behind his neck. “Had a job on the border, got hit by some peggies.” 

“What kind of job?” 

“A  _ legal _ one, mind you.” Anaïs replied, leaning in again, chin jabbing aggressively at the air.

“Just curious.” 

“Well, curiosity killed the cat.” 

“Satisfaction brought it back.” 

“What about you? Can you satisfy me?” Anaïs asked. Whitehorse’s hands, which had been absently roaming down past her belt and toward her rump, shot back up to the hollow of her back, one hand over the other.

“That isn't the kind of question I'm accustomed to answering.” 

“Well. Give me your best educated guess.” 

His eyes, which Anaïs could not see very well behind his glasses, given the dim lighting of the bar, fell to hers. She could see the deliberation in his expression. Something about the seriousness of the look he gave her sent goosebumps across her bared skin. 

Anaïs gave him another grin to cut the tension. He didn't return it, expression somber. 

“Oh, c'mon, y’wet blanket.” She hauled his arms up around her waist and moved on in closer. “You're acting half scared to death. Afraid of a little hanky-panky?” 

“ _ A little ha--do you even hear what you're saying?!”  _ Whitehorse’s voice was low, intimate, for their ears only. 

“If what those Gate assholes are preaching is true, then why not? We only live once, why not have fun with it?” Her hand was high up on his shoulder. “Your hands were all over me a second ago.” 

“It was a momentary lapse in judgement.” He said, quietly, trying to avoid her gaze. “Getting  _ entangled _ with the locals isn't in the job description.” 

“It's more like getting embedded, anyway.” Anaïs replied, hooking her arms around his neck. “Not like it's gonna hurt your career if you take one night off.” 

Whitehorse didn't respond. He wanted to, he really did, but he was fighting it.

“Where you stayin’, boss?” Anaïs was reeling him in by the hands. “Take me home, show me a good time,” she deposited his palms flat on her hips. “What's the worst that could happen?” 

The sheriff’s thumbs twitched at her waist. She could feel his indecision, coming off him in waves.

“Do I look like a honeypot or somethin’ to you? Peggies ain't smart enough to use live bait.” 

She laughed, catching a glimpse of his expression. “I'll be gone in the morning.” 

He sighed. “Ask me again when all of this is over.” 

“Is that a promise?” Anaïs dug her nails in. “You can find me around Jones if you look hard enough.” 

“Sounds more like a threat.” Earl made eye contact and held on. 

“Oh, baby, you know I’ll keep that in mind.” She gave him a wicked grin, and twisted her arms around his neck. “I can threaten you with a good time any second of the day.” 

Whitehorse didn’t make a sound in response, and she laughed, before tearing away. 

“You know where to find me. I’ll be around. Ask for Anaïs, you’ll find me in a heartbeat.” 

His arms felt emptier when she left, the room felt darker. Earl soon lost his thirst for beer. Cheap as it was. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: csa mention, brief discussion of gang violence

Next time he saw her was when Deputy Jones strode right back into the jail. Jones looked run ragged, asleep on their feet. Virgil had them running all over the county. Jones was half asleep, propped up against the wall, legs hanging over the edge of their cot, seated right next to Burke.

She waved to Whitehorse first, and behind him Tracey nudged Virgil, and shot him a knowing look. Behind him, Virgil shrugged a shoulder as if to say he didn't know. The sheriff tipped his hat, hiding his flustered expression behind his glasses.

“Fancy meeting you here, huh, boss?” Anaïs gave him a grin, and then looked to the deputy. “Kid’s asleep. I've got nothing better to do than shoot the breeze, unless you've got something I can do around here.”

“Guard duty on the wall. Think you can do that?”

“Not much of a sharpshooter but I'm sure you can give me some tips.”

“You ever shot a gun before?”

Anaïs laughed. “I'm not a child, Sheriff.”

* * *

“Alright, you're gonna wanna keep your legs balanced. Feet firmly planted.” He put his hands on her waist, twin curves of his thumbs caught on the waistband of her cargo pants. Anaïs’ expression was one of intense focus, trying at the very least to put the thought of just how close he was out of her head. “Arms up, elbows straight.” His hands slid up her sides, fingers pressing gentle at the starting point of her ribcage. He could feel her heart hammering away under his touch. That was his chest that was flat against her back when she squeezed the trigger, just enough kick to back into him. “Keep them up.” His hands go higher. Just under her arms.

“You teach all your rookies like this?” Anaïs whispered, leaning back against him to look up at Whitehorse’s face. His fingers started to edge forward toward the center of her chest, and Anaïs figures he's not thinking about the gun anymore. “Or just the pretty ones?”

“With all due respect, you can't shoot for shit.” Whitehorse replied, and Anaïs shut her mouth. She snorted, looking back at him again.

“You don't think it's the distracting way you're pawing at me?”

“I can stop.”

“I see how it is. You get me up here to fool around. I know your type, mister.” She was teasing him again, and his hands have settled home in the curve of her hips. She can't say she's disappointed when his hands end up lower than expected. Either way, though, Anaïs was pressing back against him. His chin was very nearly brushing her shoulder.

“I'd like to see _you_ try with somebody's large warm… calloused, rough workman's hands. All over you.” Anaïs swallowed, sounding distracted again.

“Easy, now.” Whitehorse eased his hands down her wrists and over to the gun, plucking it from her hands.

“Last time I shot a gun like that…” She paused, voice drifting off. “I think I was something like 16.” Her eyes closed; she was off in her own little world. “I could feel the blood hit my face. It was warm.”

“Hunting?”

“You could call it that.” Anaïs answered, absently. She dragged her hand across her face, then examined her palm to make sure there was no blood.

“Sixteen, huh?”

Anaïs gave him a weak smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. “Back in my wild days.”

His expression eased into something concerned. “You shot a person, didn't you?”

Anaïs' voice was small, choked. “Yeah.”

“What could someone have done to you to make you retaliate with a gun?”

She turned to look at him, and held his gaze for a good few moments, before looking away. She shook her head. “Méishénme, tā shénme yě méi zuò.”

“What was that?”

“I…” Anaïs’ mouth twitched. She couldn't exactly tell him how it was an old memory coming back. “Ancient history.”

“What in the hell language did you just speak?” Whitehorse tipped his hat back to scratch at his head.

“Doesn't matter.” Anaïs has both eyes on his gun. “I shot a man in Hong Kong just to watch him die.”

“Isn't that a Johnny Cash song?”

“That wasn't a joke.”

“Huh. We’ve all done something bad. Can't exactly say I did the same. Too much of a damn pacifist.”

She lifted her fingers to the large scar across her face, counting each criss cross along the line of it as she dragged her thumb across her nose to follow the scar. “Forty three little crossing scars.”

“Does that number have significance?”

“How many men I've killed alone since I was 16.”

“That number's bound to go up.”

“Mmhm. That number's from before Hope County though. Something i could potentially be proud of.”

“Are you?”

“Proud of myself?” Anaïs asked, shifting on her heels. “ _Gods_ , no. I'm not. That was somebody else's plan for me.”

Whitehorse’s expression shifted again, almost imperceptibly, into definite worry; “Who forced you to shoot someone?”

“I…” She pulled back, starting toward the ladder. “I think that's a question for another day.”

He caught her arm with his hand, each move still careful, gentle. “Do I look like the kind of person who would pass judgement so easily?”

“Well, yeah, you're a cop.” She kicked at the rough concrete underfoot with the tip of her boot.

“I promise I won't.”

Anaïs murmured something that sounded like “Promises are made to be broken.”

“You're here, doing something good for the people of Hope County. Doesn't matter where you started out.”

“C'mon, boss, you're not really interested in an old dish like me?” She turned to face him, gaze up toward his eyes. He hadn't noticed how green her eyes were until looking at them in the cooling dusk.

“Was it this one?” He touched the left side of her face, thumb scrubbing the closest scar. Whitehorse’s palm cupped the side of her face. She shot him an embarrassed smile. “It starts on the other side. Right to left.”

“Oh,” he switched hands, right hand cupping her face.

She was leaning into it, covering his hand with her own. “Actually, it'd be this one.” She guided him to touch scar tally mark number 3 from the end. “The big scar,” she guided his thumb to go across her nose, feeling the deep ridge that angrily crossed the center of her face like a canyon, “Was for my first time. A few days after my fourteenth birthday. I remember feeling nervous, out of everything. Then they brought this guy in, on his knees, hands tied behind him. Gave me a hammer and told me to go at him.” Anaïs’ voice hitched. “Took him seven minutes to die. Still dream about a man with the back of his head crushed, gaping like a goldfish.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry isn't bringing back any of the people that earned me these.” She dabbed at her nose with her thumb.

“You were fourteen.”

“Yeah. And hungry, and desperate.”

Whitehorse searched her expression for a good few moments, before pressing his lips to her forehead, cupping her cheeks in both hands. Anaïs was gripping his wrist with one shaky hand, eyes shut tight.

“Thank you for trusting me with your story.”

Whitehorse replied, slowly releasing her face.

“Yeah,” Her face turned from him, and her voice was strangled. “Not every day I spill my guts to a cop.” Anaïs took in an uneasy breath. “I think I need a drink.”

Coffee was the sheriff's go-to of choice, and the commandeered percolator, on its last legs, was running on fumes, held together by prayers and duct tape. But it worked, and for that he was thankful enough. It was a chipped FANG Center mug he pushed into Anaïs’ shaking hands. She didn't touch it, steam curling like fingers through the thin mountain air as the sun went down and the temperature dropped. The warmth of the cup leached into her hands, and that alone was soothing.

Whitehorse tipped his mug, one with an army emblem emblazoned on the side that looked nearly as old as he was, to his lips. Watching from over the rim, he took into consideration how the small redhead was staring into space. Anaïs’ gaze was fixed on the horizon, sun glinting off the mountains as it went down in a blaze of orange and gold.

“When's the last time you got some sleep? Good old fashioned R&R?”

Anaïs flashed him a smile that seemed the least genuine thing he'd ever seen. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I got a cot in my office. Next minute you get some down time you should borrow it for a few hours. Could definitely use the perk up. We need everybody at their fittest for this.”

“Sure thing, boss. This cot big enough for two?”

“That a rhetorical question?”

“It's an invitation,” she delicately replied over the rim of her mug, each syllable crisp, before she took a sip. The quiet tac of ceramic on linoleum tabletop was the only sound that could be heard between them as he put his coffee down, flustered. Whitehorse was too busy avoiding eye contact, tipping his hat over his eyes.

“I don't think that's something you'd want.” He said, making busy with pretending to clean off his glasses. “Not here, at least.”

Anaïs bumped his arm with her shoulder. “To sleep, boss. Nothing else.”

Whitehorse stilled, knuckles worrying his moustache. “Didn't think I earned that trust.”

“Show me the room first. Then we’ll talk about trust.”

He hid a chuckle behind his hand, palm flat in thought against his mouth. “Easy, now.”

“Did you expect me to want to fuck, _here_?” Anaïs wore a devilish grin. “Right now?”

Whitehorse leaned one hand right up beside her head, boxing her in on one side. His voice was low, conspiratorial even. “A pretty young thing like yourself? Something like that.”

“A, I'm at most ten years younger than you, and B, do you think nobody’s gonna hear that shit?” The redhead’s grin turned vicious. “Or maybe you just don't have enough faith in your _abilities_ to even get me close to loud enough for everyone to hear.”

Something in Whitehorse’s expression twists, but he doesn't answer. In an instant Anaïs ducked under the sheriff's elbow and into the small office room he'd been using as a makeshift room and base of operations.

He followed with a quiet sound, hauling the door shut behind them.

“They say you won't know a person until you really fall asleep with them.”

“Huh.” Whitehorse slung his holster up on the hook behind his door, stiffly turning around.

“What time does your watch tomorrow start?”

Whitehorse sucked in a breath. “Good question.”

She wasn't looking at him, instead toeing out of her boots, and slinging her legs over the side of the bed. It seemed wide enough to fit the both of them if they really tried. He dropped his hat on the radio, wedged kitty corner to the door. She yawned from behind her hand. “You can leave me in here if you gotta do your watch. I won't mind.”

“You know everyone's gonna talk.”

“That's not my problem, boss.” Anaïs was swinging her legs over the edge of the cot, tone teasing. “They were already talking the minute I walked in. People saw you out at the Spread Eagle. Flirtin’ with the _locals_.”

He grunted in response, and stiffly eased onto the cot, beside her. Anaïs took hold of his hand, plying his fingers off the edge, playing with them. “I don't really mean half the shit I say, you know.”

“Figured,” He's quiet.

Anaïs wound her fingers around his. “Just say it to get a rise outta you. I like seeing you flustered.”

“Mhm,” Whitehorse said in response, curling his free arm around her back. Anaïs settled against his chest, bringing her knees up. “I'm not here to woo any lady friends. I'm here to bring the Seeds to justice.”

“Might be a little late for that.”

“You're a lot younger than I am, as well. I don't want rumors going around that I'm some kind of pervert.”

“How much is _a lot_? I'm 43, boss. Birthday’s in October.”

“Eight years.”

She ducked her head to keep from laughing. “Thats _it_?”

“Eight years is long enough.”

“I think I worked men older than you when I was 17.”

“Worked?”

Anaïs did not elaborate. Whitehorse did not dare comment. She sighed and changed the topic.

“You know, when I said I needed a drink, I meant liquor.” Anaïs spoke, half muffled on his shoulder.

“Mmhm,” Whitehorse responded, fingertips brushing back and forth along the nape of her exposed neck. “Think you'd be better off with something to warm you up that won't kill your liver.”

“Like _I'm_ gonna live long enough to get liver cirrhosis.” A thin smile crossed her lips. “Die young, leave a pretty corpse.”

“Can't get much done when you're dead.”

This time it's Anaïs’ turn to fall silent. “Can't get much done alive either.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Then beg.” Anaïs said without skipping a beat. “I don't see what the point of planning is if I'm not gonna live to see 50.”

“What makes you say that?” Whitehorse’s thumb curled around the back of her neck, swiping across the scarred surface.

“A lot of things,” Anaïs’ answer was aching. “Reason number one is my own damn lack of self preservation.”

“Mm,” he responded. His thumb had paused on the pinched line of flesh separating her scarring from the rest of her healthy smooth skin. “I can tell you right now the responsible thing to do here is to get some shut eye and we’ll play it by ear tomorrow.”

Anaïs fell asleep in minutes, fingers curled around the open collar of his shirt. Despite everything, a heady scent of caramel seemed to have seeped into her clothes. He wasn't sure if it was perfume or soap or something, but it suited her. Earl’s hand landed on the rise of her back, just above the small of it. One of his legs were bent to make more space. For once he was glad she was diminutive.

Anaïs huffed in her sleep, but didn't rouse, instead closing her fingers around the fold of his rumpled collar. His hand eased on down, coming to rest on the curve of her hip. He let his mind wander, fingers picking at the ratty pocket of her jeans. He wondered why she was so easy to trust him, and found ruminating on the potential answers hurt. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys it's smut this go around lets do this shit

“Butterscotch schnapps. Liberated a whole crate of it off a peggie truck up north.” Anaïs was weaving back and forth, particularly stinking of caramel. She bopped his lips with her finger, “When the world’s supposed to be ending you don't get to be picky.” 

She soon replaced her finger with her mouth, easing into a kiss. Earl pressed into it for one blessed, aching minute, before pulling back with a start. A moment passed, Anaïs’ fingers digging into his sides, nails gathering the fabric of his uniform, before he guided her away. 

“You're incredibly drunk.” 

“Yeah,” she snuffled. 

“Did you  _ drive _ back here?” Earl cast a look out the window. A semi-totalled ‘98 oldsmobile was crashed on the grass outside. It was smoking, one side scraped clean of paint where it hit the wall and skidded. “If we weren't holed up in here, I'd be arresting you. You'd be on your way to a dwi.”

“You can still break out the handcuffs.” Anaïs’ fingers still plucked at his sides. “I won't mind.” 

One hand managed to snake up behind his neck, palm hot on the nape of it. “Jones is on guard duty. I got all night.” 

“I don't think you'll  _ last _ all night.” 

“You're no fun.” She pouted, hips canted toward him. “You want it, don't you?” 

“What I want is for you to be safe and sober.” 

Anaïs scoffed, and backed up, wobbling like a dashboard hula girl, expression wildly angry. “Okay,  _ Dad _ . If I wanted to screw a responsible adult, I'd have settled for someone who  _ didn't  _ kick-start a holy war in the middle of Montana.” 

He worked his mouth, looking far more disappointed than anything else. Anaïs found he could do that better than anyone else she knew. It would have had some effect if she wasn't absolutely plastered, but the only real thing it did was give her the impression he was like a big sad puppy dog. A basset hound or something, with those droopy eyes. 

“Gonna send me to bed?” Anaïs asked, giving him the biggest smarmy grin she could muster, pressing in toward him again. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit she was turning him on, especially when Anaïs dragged her fingers up his chest, hooking them in the curve of his shirt collar to pull him down to meet her. His eyes fell closed, and Anaïs drew him in for a lasting kiss. She tasted sweet, like caramel with an edge of liquor. 

“Still want me to stop?” 

He didn't get a chance to answer, because seconds later, she was falling backwards, balance gone. He caught her, easily, but his knees screamed, and his back complained more than anything else when he lifted her in a princess carry. 

She was immediately out after getting half undressed. Shirt off, tossed to the side, face down on the cot. He wasn't surprised that she didn't wear a bra, but even so, Whitehorse was uncomfortable with putting his hands on her to move her into a safer lying position. Never mind the fact that her skin was soft to the touch everywhere but the sprawling expanse of scar tissue that marred her back and curled it's way over one shoulder and up the back of her neck where her hair hid it, an angry red where the rest of her skin was a gentle tan, dusted overwhelmingly with freckles. Anaïs settled onto her side, the side of her head cradled in the curve of her arm. 

“Mmnh… Are you coming to bed, Sam?” 

He paused, waiting for an explanation but none came. Instead, she fell right asleep once more, dead to the world. 

* * *

Hours later. It had to be hours, the sun was riding low in the sky, closer to dusk than midday. When Anaïs came to, Earl was sitting in a chair, backwards. His arms were resting on the back, chin on his forearms, like he'd kept an eye on her sloshed ass this whole time. 

“Can I ask you a dumb question?” 

Anaïs sat up slow, scrubbing at her eyes with her hand. “No such thing as a dumb question, but go ahead.” 

“Who in the Hell is Sam?” 

Anaïs froze, fingers up, as her gaze slid toward Whitehorse, a panicked look in her eyes. “What? Where'd you hear that name?” 

“You said it when you were drunk. Called me Sam and asked me if I was coming to bed.” 

A squeak escaped her like air leaking out of a balloon and she visibly deflated. “Just a dumb question, huh? Let me tell you a story. A couple years after I got out of my last job, I met this guy through networking. He was charming, he was sweet.” Anaïs sighed, voice taking on a definitely strained tone. “He was reckless as all hell. You woulda hated him.” She flashed a tense smile. “We planned a life together, a kid on the way and everything. He died,” Anaïs’ smile melted off her face. “And I lost the baby a week later. Gods, I don't even remember saying that.” She sounded furious with herself. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

It's quiet for a moment before she added, snapping at herself. “Haven't thought about him in years. That was something like fifteen years ago. You're nothing like him.  _ Nothing _ .” 

“Must have been something awful.” 

“He was gunned down. A hail of bullets they said. Looked like Swiss cheese. He was so young.” Anaïs quietly said. “I didn't… get to see him. Not til after.” Her hand raised to her throat, circling it painfully. “He was cremated before the funeral.” 

When Whitehorse didn't say anything, Anaïs’ lower lip crumpled, and it was a whimper, throat burning, that escaped her as she lifted her hand to her face to scrub at the tears that threatened to fall. “ _ Shit _ .”

“You don't have to tell me any more.” 

“Don't usually get sappy when I’m drunk.” Anaïs blubbered, rubbing her palm over the bridge of her nose. “I'm just sorry you had to face that.” 

“Dirty laundry is dirty laundry no matter what you do with it. ‘M only sorry it got brought up at a bad time.” 

She scoffed. “Could always be a worse time.” 

“Mm.” Whitehorse regarded her, carefully. 

Anaïs considered it, before crushing the heel of her palm across her eyes and giving a sniff.    
“Look, I’m -- I,” She stopped, hand dropping into her lap. She leaned in, with a surge of energy, and curled her hand around around the back of his neck, before pressing her mouth to his. He let out a sound like surprise, swallowed up in slow arousal. Whitehorse’s fingers came up, clasping her shirt in his hand, thumb brushing her chin. 

“Can I--?” Her gaze was searching, something in it open and broken, and she let her sight drop, before urging in and letting him kiss her again. 

Whitehorse’s hands held her jaw, delicately, tender in the easy workings of his calloused fingertips across her skin, the brush of the tips against the whorl of scarring that began under her ear. She opened her mouth to him, letting Whitehorse in, and her hands clutched at his shoulders like a trembling lifeline. 

“I want you.” Her eyes settled closed. This time she didn’t have the means to hide, the alcohol that gave her courage to talk big game. 

“Okay,” he breathed, and she opened her eyes. “I’m not stopping you this time.” 

Anaïs sucked in a breath and hauled out of bed. She took a couple of steps and hoisted her shirt up over her head, letting the dirty fabric bunch into a ball somewhere behind her feet. 

“How long’s it been for you, boss?” Anaïs cast a look at him over her shoulder. The unmarked one, at least. It seemed like her neck’s mobility was compromised on the side covered in scar tissue. 

“Wh-I-- a while, at least.” He crossed the room to her, leaving the chair behind, not quite approaching just yet. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to you?” 

“My scars, huh? Figured you'd ask.” She scoffed, gaze hard, eyes still puffy and red. “Everybody does.” Anaïs sighed. “Sit down, it's a long story.” 

Whitehorse sunk onto the edge of the bed. Anaïs followed soon after, coming up beside him on her knees. He wasn't looking at her, and her nudity seemed more natural than anything else. “A long time ago I ran with a bad crowd. Things like that go how they usually do, and I happened to do a stupid thing.” 

“What was it?” 

“I burned down a warehouse. There was, uh… a fuel explosion. Something like that. Hit me mostly in the back and side.” 

She sighed, picking at her fingers. “I think I was out for like a week.” Whitehorse covered her hands with his own. 

“If you're afraid I'm going to think differently of you because of your… criminal background, I can assure you I won't.” 

A low laugh burst from her. “I'm not  _ afraid _ of that, Sheriff.” 

“I have a first name, you know. It's Earl.” 

“Well,  _ Earl.”  _ She kneeled upright, scooting toward him on the bed. “You're not gonna arrest me after all this is said and done. I know that for a fact.” 

“Oh-ho, and why is that?” 

She took his glasses off gently in both hands and set them aside, before peering into his eyes. “For one, the statute of limitations for it’s ended. That was years ago. And two, I intend to get you to fall in love with me and use my feminine wiles to get out of everything.” 

“Of course.” Whitehorse dryly replied, thumb brushing the low end of her scarred side, where it dipped and stopped at the rise of her hip, almost concealed by the black shorts she wore. 

“Jeez, you're getting me to monologue at you and you still haven't told me a single damn word about yourself.” 

“What can I say? Was married once, a long time ago. This,” he lifted his hand, “It's been my life ever since.” 

Anaïs let out a breath. “Them’s the breaks sometimes. Once upon a time, if you can believe it, I had a little girl.” 

“You have a daughter?” 

She shook her head. “Had, it's the key word. They took her from me when I did a stint in prison.”

He sucked in some air through his teeth. “I'm sorry.” 

“Gods, yeah. Way to kill the mood, ‘Naïs. Its… It was a long time ago. Couldn't even find her. I had to leave her behind when I came to the US.”

Whitehorse seemed to consider her for a second, before his hand closed round her chin. He tipped her face up in the blink of an eye, and kissed her. 

In surprise, Anaïs responded in kind, fingers grasping his shirt collar in her fist. She let out a sound into his mouth, before lifting her hand to curl it around the back of his neck. 

“I didn't think hearing about dead kids would turn you on.” 

“It--I--” The sheriff was too flustered to speak. “It didn't,” he mumbled earnestly. 

“Relax, tiger, I'm kidding.” She added, easily, before taking his rumpled collar in her fingers and drawing him in again. His knuckles scraped her jaw as their mouths met. Anaïs pulled his collar into her fist, hauling him in more insistently. It was then that he drew back a little.

“Try not to stop my heart, why don't you?” he hissed in her ear. That got a little laugh from her as she moved to sit astride his hips. He let them both fall to the side, and Anaïs was staring. “Something the matter?” 

“No, I just…” She murmured, “It's silly.” 

“What is it?” He lifted her chin. She smiled again, embarrassed.

“Gods, you got the prettiest eyes I've ever seen.” 

He laughed, shaking his head. “Flattery isn't gonna get you anywhere.” 

“Neither will my little legs.” Anaïs laughed back, knees still hooked on either side of his hips. 

“What are we doin’? Acting like kids?” 

“Having second thoughts, boss?” Anaïs asked, gaze sliding all over him, fingertips ghosting across his chest, slowly pushing his green sheriff's overshirt open, to get at the white tee shirt underneath. She never shoved the shirt off his shoulders, only pushing him back and straddling him again. “This the only way we can do this comfortably.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“Heh, don't be.” Anaïs got comfortable in his lap, fingers making short work of his belt. 

“So. You were married once.” Anaïs asked, teasing as she wedged his belt open. 

“A good couple of years too. Split after she came clean about wanting kids.” 

“Huh,” Anaïs breathed, edging his cargo pants down. “Didn't want them?” 

“Never had the time, didn't damn near make enough money to support a wife and child. If I was twenty years younger I'd consider it, but times being what they are, no.” His hand came to rest at the waistband of her little black shorts, and he helped her shimmy out of them. 

“Do you need a condom?” 

“Listen I’m clean, and if  _ my _ menopausal ass gets pregnant, I  _ personally _ will congratulate you.” 

He let out a huff of a laugh, fingers curling around the curve of her backside. 

One of her hands rested low on his belly, the other behind her as she eased down on him. A slow sound escaped her as she sank down to the hilt, head falling forward as she gave a little shudder, mouth open and breathing hard. 

He took hold of her elbow. “Am I hurting you?” 

“N-no,” she inhaled sharply through her teeth. “Ah,  _ fuck. _ ” Anaïs lifted her hips only a little, rolling them forward. 

“Get the hell up here, Sheriff.” She hissed, grabbing at his shirt. Whitehorse sat up, hands coming to rest at the narrow of her waist, thumbs brushing her chest. Anaïs grip on his shoulder tightened, and she lifted up off him before crushing back down, quicker this time. She rolled her hips down and forward, and Whitehorse had his hand wound through her hair. Anaïs crushed her mouth to his, one hand fisted in his dingy tee shirt underneath. 

“Oh, Gods, oh  _ fuck.”  _ Anaïs wound her arms around his shoulders, each exclamation breathless, coming every time she moved. His arm caught around the rise of her hips. In a second, he had her on her back, and Anaïs reached out for the headboard instinctively, wrapping both hands around it. One foot was caught on his waistband, kicking his pants down lower. 

“Shit,” he breathed, and Anaïs was looking up at him. 

“Can't keep up, old man?” 

He chuckled then, hoarsely. “Give me a minute.” 

“Oh no, poor sheriff gonna have a coronary?” Anaïs asked, fingers brushing his shoulders. 

He laughs again, hips working slow. “Haven't had this much action in twenty years.” 

Anaïs hummed in response, and Whitehorse crushed his mouth to hers, feeling Anaïs’ nails bite into the back of his neck. She was close, he could tell by the way she was eager to pull him in. That thought sent a thrill through him, and he hauled her hips up closer. The sound that broke free of her lips was rapturous, guttural and wordless, and he knew he had her. Anaïs took hold of his hair, dragging his face up to her level and kissing him. He let out a groan into her mouth, body locking up. She had both arms tight around him, body wracked with spasm as she arched, orgasm overtaking her. 

Whitehorse sounded relieved when he came moments later, his voice ragged. Anaïs was sweeping her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, eyelids heavy. “I could get used to this.” 

“What?”

“ _ This _ , all of it. You, me. In the quiet like this.”

“Yeah?” He was having trouble stringing words together, totally lambasted by all of what just happened. “Is that a proposal?” 

“If you want it to be.” Anaïs rolled over to face him. “What do you say?” 

Whitehorse, still dumbstruck, said nothing, and Anaïs burned at his silence. 

She scoffed, shaking her head, sounding far too angry for her own good. “You know what's funny? What's _so_ _goddamn funny_?” 

“What?” He sat up on one elbow, slowly, joints creaking. 

Anaïs flashed him a savage smile, one tense and empty, before hopping out of bed and gathering her clothes. “Once we shake off the Seeds for good, Everything’ll go back to normal. That includes you goin’ home, and me… I don't know where I'm going after this.” She shoved her feet into her jeans with a fury that radiated off of her in waves. 

“You could come with me.” 

“You're not serious.” 

“Find you a place out in the sticks. Away from all the guns and craziness.” 

Anaïs froze, listening. 

“I could cash in some favors, help you find your little girl.” 

“Not so little anymore. She'd be 23.” 

“How old were you when she was born?” 

She paused, mulling it over, gaze lowered, something painful passing over her face. “Seventeen.” 

“And her father.” 

Anaïs' grip tightened on her jeans. “In hell, if there's any justice on this bitch of an earth.”

“Did you kill him?” 

“When you're in prison for murder, even if it wasn't your fault, you're not getting out any time soon.” it sounded unrelated, a non-sequitur.

“How long were you in there?” 

“Four years. It wasn't that they let me out. I…” She hesitated. “The man who paid my bail, got me free. He had a price. Freedom always does.” An empty smirk crossed her face. “Met someone else there, who had the same short end deal. Aiden. I loved him to pieces. We were inseparable.” 

“Why'd you leave?”

“The last time I saw him he kissed me, told me he was going overseas to try and find his family. Haven't heard from him since.” 

“Do you expect him to come back?” 

Anaïs snorted. “No. No goddamn way. I'll be damned if I live to see his ginger mug again.” 

“Then what's stopping you?” 

She didn't have an answer. 

“Are you afraid of it? You know, my entire life I've been running from purpose, and now that it's found me, it's got me in its jaws and not letting go.” 

“And what's my purpose then?” Anaïs turned to him, gaze flinty. When he didn’t answer, she scoffed, and shoved the door open, stepping out into the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhhh anyway this whole everything ties in with a completely different something else and someday (SOMEDAY) i'll put it all up together on here


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so im so glad that @finefeatheredfriend came up to me in the comments section and was like all about that stupid sexy sheriff that they gave me the cojones to post some more chapters! thank them and go read their [ fic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608479) because it's so good i screamed for an hour reading it

The months passed by like nothing, and slowly, over time Deputy Jones wrested the Henbane River area from Faith's grasp, and the two of them grew closer. Anaïs did end up sticking around a little longer, much to the sheriff's chagrin, and the jail is somehow all the much better for it. \

There were some little ponds and lakes, where the bliss never touched, and  Anaïs had her shoes off, feet in the water hanging off the deck of one such pond. She was sitting there in the quiet for a spell, really just ruminating on everything. Her thoughts always brought her back to the sheriff, and she wondered what he was doing. Anaïs kicked at the water absently, watching it splash gold in the sun, and sighed. 

“Views like this led me out here in the first place.” Whitehorse spoke up from somewhere behind her, startling her out of her trance. She barely even heard him walk up. Anaïs' heart was pounding, and she hauled her feet out of the water. He got down beside her, and sighed. The sunset was painting everything gold, like the bold swipe of a brush across the landscape. It reflected off the water, and Anaïs was staring. 

“I can see why.” 

He settled in closer to her and unlaced his shoes, setting them beside her own combat boots, rolling his pant legs up and dipping his bare feet in the cool water. “It's something like home to me.”

Anaïs laughed, quietly. “Wish I could say the same. Wish it  _ were  _ home.” She cast a little look his way, hand splayed on the old wood beside her. His fingers brushed hers for just a second before her hand covered his. “Wish I had something worth staying for.” 

“Don't you?” 

“Do I?” She held his gaze, a waiting smile crossing her lips. 

He reached over and closed the gap between them. Anaïs leaned into his touch,kissing him back. Her hand flew to his cheek, holding him close.

When she drew back, the sun had mostly sunk behind the horizon. Anaïs kicked her foot out of the water, accidentally giving his foot a splash. Whitehorse absently retaliated, and Anaïs gave out a yelp, before he splashed her again, much more deliberate this time. 

“I'll show you, tough guy.” Anaïs ground out, splashing his feet harder. Whitehorse pulled her close so when the water landed it hit the both of them. She paused, breathing hard. Earl was up close, mouth almost on her ear, and she could _definitely_ tell his thoughts were on the way she was rocking in his lap, among other _harder_ things. “Hey…” 

“Yeah?” Whitehorse called, with half a grunt when she shifted in his lap and pulled back off of him. 

Anaïs took hold of his collar, yanking him in to kiss him. His free hand came up to rest on her cheek, other hand still closing a fist around the weathered fabric of the back of her tank top. 

“Think we can get out of here? My place isn't too far. Well, I say it's my place, but it probably belongs to someone who used to live around here, but I don't think that's something that either of us wanna think about right now." 

He grunted a response, and watched her take her shoes in one hand, and his broad calloused hand in her other, and let her guide him through the woods after he toed back into his own shoes, his free hand flying to the handle of his service pistol at every single sound. 

* * *

Neither of them could really wait long enough to go through the motions of courtship before it devolved into debaucherous heavy petting again. He hauled her bodily up onto the kitchen table the second they got into the dimly lit cabin, and slammed the door, letting Anaïs’ legs dangle on either side of his waist. Whitehorse gripped the edges in his broad palms, and leaned in, pulling her to him. Anaïs wound her arm around his neck, plucking at the loose folds of his collar with her free hand. 

“Oh I'm so scared of the sheriff.” She hissed, and gave him a knowing smirk, before he pressed in and kissed her. 

“Mmhm.” He murmured, with a dry chuckle, and kissed her again. Anaïs’ fingers curled around his jaw as she eased back, eyes shut. 

“You look like you're thinking.” Whitehorse murmured, the ridge of his nose brushing her cheek.

Anaïs whispered; “I am.” 

“About what?” 

“Stuff,” Anaïs answered, fingers smoothing across his jaw, scrubbing through his five o clock shadow. “Things.” 

“No, really.” 

Anaïs gave him a sly look and kissed him again, arms thrown around his shoulders. “What happened to plans of retiring?” 

“Who could be my replacement?” 

“Jones, maybe? Or Hudson? That girl’s got a good head on her shoulders.” She walked her fingers up his chest. “C'mon, what do you say to letting me be the future ex Mrs. Whitehorse number two?” 

“Is this a question or a demand? I feel like I'm being held hostage.” 

She perched both hands on his shoulder, leaning her chin there. “You can say no, Earl.” 

“Can I?” His hand found home on the curve of her hip. “The future Ex Mrs. Whitehorse?” 

She took hold of his neck and laughed, throwing her head back. “Think about it. We tour the back country. Every fishing spot from here to Saskatoon.” 

“You hate fishing.” His hands settled somewhere below her ribs.

No, I hate  _ fish. _ ” She pointed into his face. “Big difference.” 

“This sounds like an excuse to get me out in the middle of nowhere again.”

“Yep,” Anaïs cheerfully replied. “You caught onto my plan. I'm gonna make you marry me and then I'll kill you to get your meager sheriff's department retirement money.” 

“Flattering.” He took hold of her hands. “Think you gotta convince me of that first step.” 

Anaïs scoffed. “Easy. I'm already taking you up on your offer. Expecting you to deliver on your front.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I can get you a nice place to stay. An old house, right down the road from the dock, nice and quiet. Heard the owner’d give you a good price on the place. Might need some fixing up, but it's pretty enough. Lots of room too.”

“You know a lot about this house.” 

“I damn well would hope I do, since it's mine.” 

Anaïs’ breathing caught. “So… what does this mean?” 

“You tell me.” Whitehorse gave her a look she couldn't decipher. “I'm not as young and spry as I was twenty years ago but I know when I've got something good.” 

A weak smile crossed her lips. “Yeah?” 

“Think of it like I'm giving you the keys to my house.” 

She snorted. “Okay,  _ sure. _ ” 

“Can't promise you marriage or anything like that.” He reached over to touch her jaw with his thumb. “But I don't think you care about that anyway.” 

Anaïs hid her smile in the press of her lips. “You can't afford the alimony.” 

That got a snort from him and he turned his head to lean toward the top of hers. “What a heart breaker.” 

Anaïs pressed her hand against his jaw, turning to kiss him once. Her fingers crept to the back of his neck, curling around it. His lips twitched upward, a faint smile, before kissing her again. 

“I don't think you would have liked me twenty years ago.” she laughed, but it's aching, her eyes heavily lidded. She tipped her head to the side, their mouths close. “I don't like twenty years ago me either.” Her gaze is guarded. “Made a lot of stupid mistakes. Made a lot of not so stupid ones too, but mostly stupid ones.” 

“You were young.” 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “But just old enough to know better.”

He's easing down, crouching on one bended knee, and for a moment, there's a flare of pain on his face when his knees bend but he does a good job of hiding it when he lifts his chin to look at her. 

“And I'm keeping the hat  _ on _ ,” he says, grasping at the soft flesh above her knees before hauling her jeans and shorts down off her waiting flesh. A shiver escapes her, and he's looking at her under the brim of his hat, blue eyes like the ocean. She feels like she could drown in them and that'd be okay. That same breathless feeling fills her chest when he looks at her, and she figures it's just like suffocating. 

“Easy, boss.” Anaïs stuck out her bare foot, the arch of it catching on his shoulder. He regarded her leg, carefully, easy does it, and took her calf in both his hands. Working in between her knees, he lets her leg rest on his shoulder. He presses his mouth to the side of her calf, then her knee. He pauses, and looks at her. Anaïs’ lips are parted, moist, waiting. 

“Still want me to go  _ easy _ ?” 

“I want you to go  _ somewhere  _ but easy ain't it.” She breathes, and he huffs, lips curled up. 

“How about some patience, darlin’?” He adds, voice low. It’s just about this side of a  _ growl _ and it sends Anaïs reeling. 

“You know,” she says, through slack lips, between heavy breaths, “You can talk to me like that any time and I’ll melt.” 

“Oh?” He drops his voice low again, and she shudders, feeling the dry brush of his lips on the inside curve of her thigh, moustache tickling her sensitive skin. “I think you’re melting now.” 

An aroused giggle escapes Anaïs’ mouth, and she flexes her foot behind his head. “You know it, baby. How about you  _ quit _ teasing, and get in here.” 

“I think I prefer the view from down here.” 

“Your knees aren’t going to, I think.” 

A brief grimace crosses his face. “Don’t remind me.” 

“Got a jar of tiger balm around here somewhere,” Anaïs murmurs. “We can give your knees a rest if you're willing to step outta those pants for a little while.” 

He laughs and then he's out of sight, the brim of his hat up close to her bare skin. And then he's all over her, and Anaïs can barely take it. 

She's grasping at his shoulder, the back of his head, unable to get a good grip as he works her over and wrings every sound from her bruised lips. He hauls her up to the edge of the seat, knees hooked over his shoulders, and the sounds she's making are aching, pained sounds, head bowed. 

She cums, body twitching minutely, and his hands are on her ass, one rough palm just resting in the curve of her spine. She realizes then he's stopping her from pulling away. He dips in once again, mouth hot on her skin, and a thought crosses her mind wondering where the hell he learned how to do this. She whines, legs tensing. 

“ _ Earl _ , baby,  _ please,”  _ Anaïs honest to God whimpers, legs crossing behind his head. Her head tips back, and she's breathing noisily. He opens his mouth and takes her in, and Anaïs is bucking her hips with wild abandon. 

It's when her nerves are frayed, and she is still trembling, that he eases off of her. Anaïs lets out a laughing breath, rattled. 

When he pulls back, he wipes his open mouth with the fleshy part of his palm and for a brief dizzying moment Anaïs comes to the conclusion of realizing that she loves this man. 

“Listen.” She's breathing hard, carding a hand through her hair. “If you did that for your wife I can't see why she left you.” 

Whitehorse laughs, and wipes at his mouth again with the back of his hand, wrenching himself to his feet with a tight grip on the back of a chair. When he stands, with difficulty, stiffer than a corpse, his knees click, and a glimpse of pain crosses his face. 

“Need that tiger balm, honey?” 

“Need a lotta things,” he grumbles, and Anaïs takes his hands. 

“Lemme put on pants and I'll get you everything your heart desires.” 

“A million dollars and a well-earned vacation?” He gives her a look, thumbs swiping her hands. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try.” Anaïs hops off the table and wobbles, knees weak. She's using his hands to balance. “ _ Fuck me _ , Earl. I’m worse than a baby deer.” 

Anaïs makes her way across the room, and grabs at a ratty backpack, before pawing through it until she finds a small glass canister. 

“Alright, daddy-o." She crosses the room to him again, and comes up beside him. "Gotta drop trou. Pants  _ off _ . Don't be shy, I already know what kinda heat you're packing and I'm pleased with it.” Anaïs says, unbuckling his belt. He's flustered for a moment, before she reaches in and untucks his shirt. Using the tails, she reels him in and kisses him. His hips cant at an angle toward her touch but she ignores it. 

“Easy now,  _ officer _ .” She says, a hand splayed across his abdomen to shove him back. Whitehorse sits down, a frown crossing his face when his knees twinge.    


His skin is shiny with it when she's through, the air thick with menthol. “How's that?” she asks, before pressing a kiss just above his knee and standing up. 

“Better.” he bends it, up across the edge of the kitchen chair, and it's less stiff. “And here I thought you were only trying to get me here and naked to have your way with me.” 

“Well, if you want it, it'll have to come after I wash my hands.” She grins and kisses him, keeping her slick fingers far away from them both. “This shit’ll burn if either of us get it too close to our unmentionables.”

That gets a laugh out of him and when she grins back, he wonders how in the hell he managed to reel this one in. 


	5. Chapter 5

Jones kills Faith at the end of the fourth month of the siege of Hope County, with ease. They come back, weary, looking like they had been crying, bloodied just enough to suggest a hardcore fight. The celebration takes over a small part of the jail, concentrated mostly indoors. However, the sheriff lingers out front, like he's waiting for something.

"Earl?” Anaïs asks as she rides up on a four wheeler, spotting the sheriff from where he should have been resting after they got him out of the bunker. He's walking kinda funny, and for a second she's scared how badly Faith did a number on him. “You don't look so good.” 

In the blink of an eye, just as long as it took for him to get to her, they're necking like a bunch of teenagers, and Anaïs lets him wind his fingers under the hem of her tank top. She knows it's a celebration, a big hoorah of it's good to be alive. And when he presses her up against Jones' truck, she lets him.

Honey, sweetheart, darlin’, he's calling, like he can't remember her name. He's got her backed into the seat, knees up. His hands really are so warm under her shirt, dry on her skin, not clammy. It's pleasant, even _pleasurable._ Erotic. She peels her shirt up off over her head, as he fumbles with her bra clasp. He gives up, instead working the straps down off her shoulders, and taking her into his hands. Large palms skating across her bare skin, and a gasp pulls from deep inside her. It's soon swallowed in his mouth on hers. He tastes sweet, and familiar. Coffee and stale mints. Her heart aches.

She's wet the instant he kisses her.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , fuck,” Anaïs howls, voice strangled, yanking her jeans down, kicking out of them. Then her shorts. Earl’s got his hands on her again in an instant, palming her in his broad hand, fingers dragging into the heat of her.

Her mouth never pulls too far from his, a needy sound wrenched from between her bared teeth with each dip of his fingers between her legs, as she wrangles his slacks down, fly unzipping the only real sound in the back of the wagon beside their own hurried frantic breathing. He's hard, throbbing in her hand, and the eager little buck of his hips when she closes her grip sends a shiver through her.

“C’mon, baby,” she gasps, grasping at the back of his neck as he pushes in. Her feet flex on either side of his knees, and he's pressing in _in_ , breath hot, eyelids lazily drooping half closed, in either ecstasy or pain, until he's bottoming out inside her. He's got one arm up on the gating between the backseat and the front, using it to balance. Anaïs lifts her hips, giving him leverage. “Oh, _god,_ sweetheart, darlin’, honey, baby,” the nicknames fall from his lips like a symphony, and Anaïs kisses him again. This time he tastes sweet, too sweet, vanilla antifreeze and pollen. Of course, the bliss. He rocks in, and it takes all of Anaïs’ strength not to cry out right there, head falling back. She can see his eyes now, cloudy, but focused just enough on her. She knows he's lucid enough to see her.

“Oh, please, please, please,” she's begging, breath coming hard. She's listening to him groan above her, working into a pant, each breathless grunt, building and building.

“ _Ah, hah, shit_ , hah,” he’s grasping at her, hand cradling the small of her back, as his hips, unsteady as they were, picked up energy, ragged thrusts working in. Anaïs was there, on the precipice, nails digging in, each rock pulling a new sound from her. His mouth is on her pulse point, tongue laving across her heated flesh. He delves lower, and for a moment that wet heat is gone. He closes his mouth around her nipple, teeth worrying at it, scraping across her sensitive bud, and she almost loses it there. Where he learned to use his tongue like that she could never guess, but when he sinks his teeth into the flesh of her breast, she cries out.

“Earl, _fuck_ , uhnngh, _please_ , I-I’m--” Her mouth opens in a silent scream as her back arches, legs spasming as her orgasm overtakes her. Something like a contact high, she figures, which is making her head swim and her heart pound, and her body so _susceptible,_ so _easily aroused._ Any sound she would have made is smothered by his mouth on hers, as he pumps forward in quick succession, a grunt like gravel vibrating through her as he spills out inside her.

* * *

Anaïs _does_ manage to persuade the sheriff to go back to bed after a long battle with his spectacular long calloused fingers, and the skill with which he uses them, wedged in the back of the wagon. Knowing the bliss was still chugging through his system, she figured he could use the sleeping it off more than anyone else. She wriggles back into her jeans just in time to see a fluorescent pickup with horrendous flames painted on the sides peel onto the road to the jail. 

Jones hauls ass out of the new brightly colored truck, and gives a wave. Up top, Tracey waves them in. The back is piled with crates of vegetables, a hell of a lot of them. Looks like a successful little wrangling of supplies. Must have been the stuff that got left behind after Faith fell.

Besides that, there were stacks of guns, two or three shovels, and a few other misshapen odds and ends.

Anaïs tears through the items, closing her hand around the neck of a guitar. “Care to explain _this_?”

“Thought it'd be good for morale,” Jones hums. “Sure somebody knows how to play.” They pluck at a string and a well tuned G plays. “Looks like it's been well taken care of.”

* * *

It's quiet, hours later, when Whitehorse climbs the wall for guard duty. He's groggy in a way, but his vision is not swimming the way it was earlier, and the very touch of the wind on his skin is not euphoric, pleasure inducing. He's afraid, a little, of approaching Anaïs, after what happened earlier.

Dusk is settling, and after Faith’s less than spectacular takedown, they were all picking up the pieces and licking their wounds. It strikes him as odd there's soft music playing, a loosely picked at guitar melody.

He pulls up the ladder, and leans against the rail. Behind the guard tower someone’s playing the pilfered guitar, facing the other way. He recognizes the song they're playing, an old _old_ hymn. There haven't been any peggie sightings in a few hours, and the sun was sinking low. He listens, gently, easily, not a peep coming out of him. It goes on for a few minutes, soon stretching past 20, streaking onward, one folk song after another. He doesn't glance at his watch, only looking out at the road ahead, listening to the music. He figures they don't know he's there, and he doesn't want to spoil the moment. His foot bangs against a small piece of shrapnel that falls from the walkway to the ground with a deliberate jangle, and the music stops. He holds his breath. The erstwhile musician puts the guitar down and steps away from the chair. To the guard post they turn, and Whitehorse comes face to face with Anaïs. She gasps, before her expression folds into anger.

“What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Your shift’s up.” His thumbs settle on his belt. “I never knew you knew how to play.”

“I don't. Not really, at least.”

“Didn't sound like _not really_ ,” he tips his head back to look at her.

Anaïs huffs, and she crosses her arms. “I didn't think anyone’d be up here so soon, let alone you. Aren't you supposed to be resting?”

He casts a look at her. “Swapped lookout duty with Scott, you know him. The black haired man with the beard. He was close to Virgil. In a way, we all were.”

She pauses, hands on the rail, tightening. “Gods, Faith’s really dead, isn't she?”

“Looks that way, doesn't it?”

"I was worried about you, you know." She's not looking at him when she leans her elbows on the railing. "Earlier." 

"Hm," He gives her a monosyllabic answer, and leans in beside her. "I'm sorry." 

"You," she laughs, but it's achy and she hugs herself. "You don't have to be. It was good, it was nice. I just..." Anaïs shakes her head and sighs. "I'm just afraid what's gonna happen if I lose you." 

"You're not going to." Whitehorse says, and he sounds like he doesn't mean it. He's just as scared of what will happen, and he wonders, at some deep part of him, when he allowed that to happen, letting the gun for hire get close enough to mean something to him. 


	6. Chapter 6

When Jones departs to the Whitetails a few weeks later, once the Henbane area has been stabilized, Anaïs does not follow. She has good reason, though, not to. It's _her_ cabin they settle into, or at least where Anaïs stays. Earl doesn't stay as often as she would have liked, but she knows he has the rest of Hope County to keep an eye on. And Jones, too, needed a firm parental guidance.

“Nice going, asshole, I'm pregnant.” Anaïs hisses, the very second Whitehorse approaches. It looks like she'd been standing outside for a while. There's a half-neglected brown bottle in her hand. The air around her seems to chill, or that could be the way the sun is setting low, a cerulean cloud cover following suit, not to mention the flak jacket draped around her shoulders that looked to be a few sizes too big. He stops, and he stares at her, like he can't believe what he's heard.

“What?” His blood runs cold. “Are you keeping it?”

“What kind of question is that? We have the space for it, don't we?” She spreads her arms to gesture to the cabin, where the windows are darkened from the curtains, and inside is dimmer than the darkest night. 

“I'm an old man. You're not getting any younger yourself.”

Anaïs snorts, bitterly. “Not getting any younger is right, boss.” She threads her fingers through her hair. “Way to go, Earl.” She adds, flatly. “Congrats, you knocked up my menopausal ass.” Anaïs crossed her arms over her middle, gaze forced away.

“Where'd you get the coat?”

“An old friend. You know.”

"An old friend, huh?" Whitehorse says, and when Anaïs' expression twists, he regrets saying it the way he did. 

"I'm going to bed, Earl," She says, wearily, and her hands drop. "We can talk about this later." 

He doesn't join her for another few hours, and it's the middle of the night when she feels his weight slip into the bed beside her. 

Gentle kisses pressed along the line of her shoulders, skipping over her tank top straps, as he slid in behind her in the bed.

“You're the biggest jackass I've ever met,” She gave a dry retort, without looking at him, and Whitehorse startled.

“ _Shit,”_ his arm looped around her waist, haphazard. “Sorry, thought you were asleep.”

“Yeah, doesn't matter." She knows he was avoiding her, just for tonight at least. "I'm just…” She turned over to face him. “I'm worried, you know. That shit she was pumping in. I shoulda been there.”

“Well, they haven't killed me yet.” That made a crooked smile cross her face, and Anaïs hooked her arms around his neck. His voice lowered. “I'm actually glad you weren't there. She gets in your head, convinces you to do the worst things. Things you'll regret.”

“Huh. Done enough regretful things in my life under orders from somebody else. Don't need some junkie to do it too.”

He didn't have a response for that, but Anaïs held him tighter. “Wouldn't have been good for you or for, _y’know_ ,” Earl dipped his head, nodding toward her middle.

Anaïs fiddled with his fingers, gaze downcast. “That's why I'm worried. Couldn't possibly have been good for you either.”

He fixed her with a look so piercing it made her skin prickle.

“You ever smell vanilla and gas so strong it turns your stomach and makes your head swim, you run as far away as you can as fast as you can, til you can't smell it anymore.”

“Yeah. I get you. I wish I didn't have to worry so much.”

Whitehorse settled back without a response, letting Anaïs curl up beside him. He knows she's going to be missing him tomorrow when he's gone around sunup. 

Her fingers played across his chest, her head settling in the crook of his shoulder and neck. “What happens now?”

His palm skittered across her bare hip. “Depends on what you want.”

“What about what you want?”

His hand paused, fingertips digging into her firm skin. It was a good few seconds before he spoke. “i'm not married to you, I can't make decisions like that.”

“Did you want to be?” Anaïs’ hand flattened just above his heart.

He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, considering it at length. “I don't know.”

“I know all the excuses. You're an old man, you're retiring soon, I _know_.” She sighed. “I'm not even that much younger than you. I have a life of my own that pays good money. I'm not out to scheme you out of your pension.” she'd been staring at him for a good few minutes. “I just think, maybe we’d be good together.”

“We can be good together without all the bells and whistles.” he answered, quietly.

“This kid is yours, Earl.” she responds, her voice tense. “Whether you want it or not. And I want this kid to have a father.”

“I can do that.” he says it after a silence that throbs in her chest. “You'll be in my house already. You're working, we can do this.”

The laugh that escapes Anaïs’ mouth is bitter. “You don't sound particularly certain.”

“Because I'm not.”

“Mm,” she hums in casual response, catching his left hand in both her own. “Wearing your ring. Your ex know that?”

“Doubt it.” He lifts his hand to examine his fingers. “She passed two summers ago.”

Anaïs sucked in a breath, an apology halfway out of her mouth. “Shit, I'm sorry, I--”

“You didn't know.” His voice is thick. “She got the diagnosis a couple years after the divorce, went into remission a while. Wasn't my responsibility anymore.”

“That's a callous way of looking at it.”

“She remarried. Pretty damn quickly if you ask me.”

She curled her fingers into his palm. “What was it?”

“Cancer. It metastasized, quick. Ate her up. Sent flowers every other week.” A laugh like an ache bubbled up. “Cervical. She couldn't have had kids even if she tried.”

Anaïs bites her lip. “Did you love her?”

A ragged sigh escapes him and he's quiet for a long few moments. All Anaïs can hear is the pounding of her heart in her ears. “Thought I did. Maybe not enough.”

“What does that bode for me?” Anaïs asks, only half-joking. When he doesn't look at her, she shifts, throat tightening up. She's not entirely sure why.

“This was an accident. Anaïs, this is the most reckless thing I've ever done.”

“No, the most reckless thing you've ever done is come into a huge-ass compound full of armed cultists with four other people to arrest some Jim Jones style jackass. Isn't that, like, the FBI’s job? There should be like thirty swat style Quantico trained badasses out here, guns blazing, and they send you, three _kids_ and one US Marshal.”

He opens his mouth to counter, but she stops him.

“What the _Hell_ were you thinking, Earl? That this could be settled peacefully? The man's a nutjob.”

The way his jaw works makes her sad in a way, her heart breaking for Earl. “I don't go in for that. If I had known--”

“Not everything can be solved with diplomacy.” She says, and sighs, changing the topic. “Babies happen in war zones all the time.”

“That doesn't make it okay.” Whitehorse insists, and pauses. “I'm worried about _you_.” 

“C'mon,” she murmured, looping an arm around one of his caging her in against the bed. “Think about it. You and me and whatever kid life throws at us?”

“You're serious.”

“Of course I am.” She looked up at him, green eyes blazing. Anaïs poked at his frown. “Please? How about a smile?”

He dropped his gaze, and Anaïs caught a glimpse of the corners of his mouth reluctantly turning up.

“There we go. It won't be bad, I promise.” She took hold of his arms, wrapping them around herself, back against his chest. “You don't like it, you can dump me.”

Whitehorse sighed. “It's not that I don't want… _children.”_ His thumb brushed her shoulder. “It would be hard enough as it is on a regular paycheck, but on a pension it'll be damn near impossible to raise anything.”

“I'm not asking to be helpless. I have my own means.”

He looked at her seriously, gaze piercing. Anaïs falls silent, and she's just staring at him from across the bed in the dark. 

She's quiet, when she speaks again. “I'm scared, Earl. About everything. Not just, y’know, the kid, but _everything_.” Anaïs works her throat. “What happens if you can't take Joseph in?”

“I don't know,” he answers. “Might have to have the National Guard come in after us. Something like that.”

She shifts in her spot, forehead lined with worry. “What happens if they're right? The Gate?”

“Stop thinking like that.” He says, and it comes out sharper than he intended, she thinks, because he frowns after, and his tone is far more gentle. “They aren't, ‘Naïs. I promise.”

“Yeah, what good is a promise from a middle aged divorcée with a kid from a much younger woman he's not married to.” She's teasing, but there's a distinct edge to her words.

He pauses. “That isn't funny.”

“You have to take him out soon, anyway.” 

"Yeah," He says, and lies back, eyes on the ceiling, hands laced together over his chest, the dingy white tee shirt wrinkled under his palms. "Heard Jones is out for Jacob Seed." 

"Uh-huh," Anaïs responds, quietly. "After John, Joseph is next. Hope Jones can take it. Kid's good, but I don't know how good." 

* * *

A few weeks later John Seed is missing, presumed dead, and Jacob Seed's body is never found. Joseph is last on the agenda, and this scares Anaïs more than anything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> so uh this is happening now anais is an oc of mine who's entire character arc spans like 5 different aus. please comment like subscribe welcome to hell

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kidnapping With Intent To Harm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608479) by [finefeatheredfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend)




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